


What could of been

by Potatoinamecha



Category: 11th Century CE RPF
Genre: 11th Century, Battle, Battle of Hastings, Historical, Historical Romance, I swear I’m not serious with this but I got really carried away and here I am, I wrote this as a joke really guys, M/M, Pining, Romance, Shipwreck, real person fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potatoinamecha/pseuds/Potatoinamecha
Summary: What if William the conqueror had rescued King Harold at his shipwreck in northern France?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	What could of been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonrose/gifts).



> I started writing this based off a joke between me and a friend about if would write fan fiction about our ancestors. And since I am very, very distantly related to William the conqueror,I figured it would be funny to write a slash fic about him and admittedly got quite carried away with wariting this mainly because I had nothing better to do. Also an obvious disclaimer; I do not actually ship William the conqueror or Harold Godwinson with anybody and just think the concept is funny. Also this was written in like an hour with only very basic spelling amendments so low quality warning.

Harold always hated the night before a battle . There was something so unnervingly peaceful about the night sky and vaguely rustling grass. It felt so plain so . . . unbothered , like mother nature didn't care enough about the following days to dedicate a blight, or some pleasantly thematic thunderstorm to the event. And not only that, but he would be fighting… him. It was not some beastial fear that stopped him from wanting to fight william the conqueror, but another, equally primeval feeling. A feeling that also made his palms sweat, and his stomach do flops and his mind go blank. And a feeling that , unlike fear he was completely unprepared and unwilling to embrace or even acknowledge, He chuckled to himself in the darkness, having previously headed out for a walk to clear his anxiety-addled mind. Harold Godwinson had much more important things to worry about then some perfectly imaginary feelings for the opposite leader Staringout across the plains he found himself mentally running over the numbers of soldiers he had currently available, how much food they will probably need for the following days, how many deaths the battle might bring, but it all circled back to the enemy general.

The ship rumbled and heaved in the angry waves. And Harold heaved along with them , desperately gagging over the side of the boat that was being tossed like a god's toy in the turmoil that was the english channel. Behind him, an advisor desperately yelled for him to go inside, but his voice was drowned out by the waves battering the boat. The advisor too, was drowned by the next swell that lifted him off his feet and swept him into the gaping engulf of the sea. Harold barely hung on, clear of the petty misery of the ships rocking now to be replaced by the crippling realisation of how much danger he was currently in. He desperately tried to reach the center of the boat , trying to get out of the reach of the gripping tendrils of the sea, but it was ultimately useless as he heard the dreadful sound of the bow cracking, giving in to the force of the storm, And suddenly the sea roared not beside, but beneath him as the ocean came rising up through the floor of the boat in a powerful current that ripped him off his feet and threw him into a dark world of no direction where up was no different of down, and harold was the the mercy of the gods. Well, the gods must have been feeling merieful that day, because the king of England came to lying on the beach, and looking up at the face of a slightly bemused, but equally regal looking man. 

The next few days were a blur filled with the babble of a language Harold recognised, but could not fully comprehend . But language was not needed for the understanding of what went down. The pure odds that there would be a group of traveling french noblemen on the very beach that Harold was shipwrecked on were incalculably low, but Harold did not feel fit to question his chances of survival. After all, he could have been rescued by a less handsome noble.

He didn't know his name but he was obviously valued highly by the other men and treated with great respect. And that respect seemed well earned. He towered at a staggering 7 ½ feet and his arms were that of a fighter, well tanned and lean, presumably from years of training with the heft greatsword that accompanied him wherever he went. But his eyes were black, and that of a schemer albeit with an uncharacteristic glimmer of kindness that had presumably been the catalyst for Harold's rescue. And as he lay on the beach mildly overwhelmed, his side stinging with the pain of broken ribs, harold presumed that it was that same glimmer of kindness that lead him to be the one to personally treat his wounds, gently applying the powerful smelling herbs to his torso and helping to wrap bandages around him , his strong arms coming in useful with tightening the strips to the correct pressure needed to set them back in place. And Harold told himself, it was merely that same small glimmer of kindness that led that mysterious man to sit beside him, to attempt with much humor to communicate with him the very basic broken french he knew. And as he mentally went on, it was merely an act of humility to bring him drinks and the finest of foods from the convoy while he lay healing on the sand. They probably recognised his status, harold mentaly reasoned, and thought it unfit to let him sleep outside while they camped there and instead offered him the nobleman's bed, ignoring the fact that they both knew of the plenty of spare mattresses the travelers bought with them. It was only at the end of that week, once the rescue ships arrived and he was carted back out to Britain , that Harold bothered to ask if anyone recognised the man. And,it was only upon finding who he really was that harold realised that he had spent the last week with non other than william the conqueror, King of france 

The battlefield roars around Harold, the clash of metal on flesh ringing in the ears of everyone apparent. The feeling of despair permeates the air l and leaks into the mind of the troops. It is obvious that they are outnumbered and in desperate need of backup. Backup that, he knows, will never come. So he fights like a whirlwind and desperately tries to make his last moments count, leaden with the knowledge that he would eventually be outnumbered, then fall. He strikes down man after man and waits for death to come. And so it comes, in the form of an arrow slipping between two men, not giving him enough time to even attempt to dodge. It finds its mark, striking right in the left eye. His knees give in and he falls to the ground. Far away from inside his head, he faintly hears the sound of surrender. He starts to drift off, lying in the mud, but a hand of his cheek brings him back to reality. It connects to an arm, tanned and straining with muscles but flecked with mid and dubious grime. Looking up, Harold sees balck eyes and realizes who he was looking at entirely too late; William the conqueror. He stares back at him with one eye, head now clear of anything but the thrumming of his heartbeat, Smirking slightly, William says something in french: “Je ne peux pas te laisser mourir ici, camarade guerrier” . Mind once again slipping back into cotton wool, Harold desperately tries to mouth something, as he feels his body get lifted off the ground. “Remember … the … beach?” The last thing harold ever remembered feeling, and the only answer he got was the gentle press of lips on his forehead as he drifted into oblivion.


End file.
